Super Nova
by Faceless.Bee
Summary: I died, or was I born? Death and life, I am followed out of my life by death, and greeted in death by life. I do not know who I am, or why I am here, all I know is the death that greeted me, and the life that awaits me. [SI/OC] warning for descriptive gore and dealing with death. Upped rating for necro-cannibalism and self-mutilation. You have been warned, this is very dark.
1. Chapter 1

I know, new story while I am struggling with one already is bad, but I cannot help myself

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Waves of obsidian, bright stars of silver and gold dotting the endless lake of darkness; this is what greeted me as I entered consciousness of life. Do not ask how I died before, as I do not recall my previous life aside from the bright, ingrained moments of my previous existence. My mother and father, my dear sweet brother, my lover and my children, all these I remember in distant distorted pictures, as if looking through a muddy lake or an old broken mirror. This life though, it started in death, as my previous one ended with such. I was born to, of that I can assure you though I hold no recollection of it, and was raised by a family of poor laborers. My father of this life was a plain man, with no distinguishable features or talents; he farmed the land we held, a small patch in a failing village on the border of many more powerful nations. My mother was also plain, with her only saving feature being her dark, long hair, well cared for and soft as silk, and she worked the land with my father. They both broke their bodies to survive, weak and ill as they were, and my presence, as I can only assume, made this all the more difficult. My 'birth' was triggered by their death, and by what I can only assume was the death of my host body. I was not born, and did not grow up in this body, instead I was pushed into a barely cooling corpse and expected by whatever higher power there was to survive.

My mother's beautiful hair was stained red with her blood, and clotted with dirt and other bodily fluids; my father's corpse was as cold and stiff as my mothers, with bloody gashes going the length of his torso and neck. A bloody mess was left in our small shack, and my small body was covered in gore, my mother who had fallen on top of me, maybe to protect me, bleeding slowly on my small body. Pushing her cold body off of my small, weak frame, I stood in the center of their home. Breathing was difficult, and looking down I realized there was a gaping hole where my heart was, slowly closing before my eyes. I was a walking corpse, with no idea why my family was killed or by whom. It could have been bandits, though my host's family seemed to have no valuables, or an assassination; both seemed unlikely for the farmers of a pathetic village with no resources or riches.

I walked around the single room shack, the only thing of any value I could see was a small portrait of my parents, and what I can only assume was me as an infant. It was in a wooden frame, bamboo maybe, and was a black and white photo in front of a lavish looking home. Was my family from a wealthy background, or was it an excursion that was truly a one in a lifetime opportunity for my parents? It did not matter now, and I continued to look around, holding the framed picture as I collected other objects of any value or usefulness. The barren shack only held a few things I found of use; clothes for my small frame, a silver comb hidden under a floorboard, a few wooden toys now stained with blood, and a small blade stuck in my father's corpse. There were no books or writing utensils, not even a letter or painting, it appeared as my host and its parents were illiterate. Not unusual for farmers, I vaguely recall from a far memory, perhaps mine, perhaps the bodies.

Memories of this body stayed, vague and fogged, within the depths of my subconscious, just as the memories of my previous life festered in their useless haze. I did not know my name, or where I was other than a vague knowledge that the farm soil was poor, and rain was torrential and destructive whenever it came. I knew of the flying men, they often passed our village on their way to other places, mother told me of their great powers in tales before bed. Was it this mother, or my previous one; I cannot recall.

"Never look at the men, my star, and never get in their way, they will not hesitate to cut you down."

Yes it was this mother, with her pretty black hair and fogged brown eyes, telling me of the dangers of this world before bed, before we were killed. My memories hurt to pull up, struggling and straining my brain, as I am only an infant in this body, no older than five.

Gathering my objects in a small sack with any food I could find, I walked out of the hut, leaving the rotting corpses of my parents behind. I walked for minutes, or was it hours, miles or inches, till I came to the neighboring house. They were dead too, cut and killed with blood spilling everywhere. The whole village was dead as I had found more houses, more bodies. Slaughtered like animals and left to rot, my whole village, my hosts home, was destroyed and tainted.

My body was weak, the healing and walking taking much of my energy, and the shock of the death was too much. As the sky darkened I found an empty hut, no rotting body or blood stained floor to haunt my sleep.

Curling around a blanket I scavenged, one my mother's untouched dresses covering my shoulders like a shroud, I began to look at what I had found and scavenged from the dead.

Photos were the first things I grabbed, so that the dead would not be forgotten even by a stranger such as myself. Any valuables were next; I am not stupid and knew money would be important for my survival. Many of the women had combs or trinkets in jade or ivory, expensive pieces that were most likely family heirlooms or courting gifts. The men had little of value, nicer clothes or tools were most common, with one man, an elderly man who was alone, who had a few books and a paint set. Brushes and paper lay with the books, separate from the rest as I would not sell these. Learning would be important; my past memories would not take me very far. Children's clothes were also collected, as I would grow into them, if I survived that was, and any non-perishable was grabbed to sustain myself for a few days, though I was not hungry.

Tomorrow I would need to burn the bodies as the soil was too hard for graves and my small body would not be able to dig that many holes for the bodies. A single mass grave, a funeral pyre to burn away this village and all evidence of its existence, I would do a final sweep for valuables and food, and then burn the houses down one by one. My house will be last, a proper funeral for my host's parents; their lives need a better commemoration than a mass burning. Tomorrow, I will erase any proof of this tragedy, and create a new path for this dead body.

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Tell me what you think please, do you guys wanna see more or no?


	2. Chapter 2

Dark and gross chapter ahead. Please read at your discretion.

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It was interesting to watch the smoke billow in the air, the scent of burning flesh and wood permeated the air as wisps of smoke curled around the wind, as if the spirits of the dead were dancing in freedom. A freedom I was not to be granted. This body, this child's body that was dead and came back, it cannot die again. More correct, it will not die again, for as the bodies burned and smoke filled my lungs I realized, this body did not need to breathe. Breathing was simply a unconscious reaction, but when I held my breath for the thick black plumes to pass, I did not need to inhale or exhale. The burning one feels when holding their breath, I did not feel this even after minutes of smoke surrounding my small frame, caressing my skin in a final farewell.

This body, it was just a reanimated corpse, not a living vessel but simply a container. Was this my hell? What was I to be punished for? Memories so foggy, I cannot recall my evils to deserve this, what pains did I cause to have this living Hell pushed onto my spirit?

Panic clutched at my heart, was this possible, no never, never. Running to the hut I claimed as home I pulled out the knife I had found in my father's corpse.

Could I bleed?

The answer was no. Stabbing my hand, there was a pain, sharp and excruciating. Hope rose in my chest; death was reachable, yes, yes.

But no, the shine dulled in my hope, pulling the knife out there was no blood. A small sluggish dribble of red, as thick as jelly, ran from the knife, but that was it. Before my eyes, and to my shock and anger, the gaping wound healed. Slow and painful, as the healing was so fast, but so slow, experiencing the pain of stabbing and healing, as if on repeat. But no it was only a few minutes, and the wound was healed, with only a scar remaining.

I was hungry now, ravenous to my core. Pulling out dried fish and pickled vegetables from my burlap sack I ate with savage gusto, but it was not enough. More, more, more, my body cried, demanding repayment for the unwanted healing. I smelled it, my food rotting; human flesh, my parents. Ripping and tearing, like an animal, a savage beast with no hold of my thoughts, I ate my fill, my body healed and full.

Only to puke it back up when I looked at what I had done. Blood, new and fresh, smelling of rot and death, covered my hand and face, coating my lips and tongue in its disgusting copper taste. I was a monster, some insane thing that this body's mother had warned it about; a tale to scare young children. What was I? Why would I be here?

Punishment, Hell, Hunger, these words flew around my head, and I felt blackness surround my vision.

Waking later, when the ashes of the village had cooled, I turned to the remains of my parents. Disgust rolled through my stomach again. They were no longer discernable as human corpses, just piles of bone and flesh, organs and blood splattered the hut in a macabre portrait of my existence. Monster, my mind screamed. Running out of the hut, I hacked up bile and blood. The blood was not mine.

Horrible thing I was; eating the dead, healing and not breathing, living in a corpse.

Turning the hut, my bloodied hand print marking the door frame, I felt my skin crawl. Burn it, burn it, cooking diner for tonight, my mind screamed at me. Terrible thoughts, I had to stop them, take away temptation.

Grabbing the box of matches from my pocket, the wood sticks stained copper but dry enough to light, I struck one of the matches against the box. The orange flame danced along the burning stick. Could I burn? Would it heal like the knife?

I did not test this theory, I did not want to eat the dead again; did not want to experience the pain of burning.

The house burned a bright red, lighting the darkening sky a brilliant crimson and fiery orange. Smoke thick and black with the smell of death, the smell of freedom, billowed and blew around me. I inhaled deeply, not choking on the rotten air.

I quickly turned from the burning hut, as the drive to run in and retrieve my food struck me with harshness. I did not want to be this monster. Sprinting with my small childish limbs, I reached the only untouched hut. I quickly threw all the items I collected into the burlap sack. It was heavy, but did not compare to the guilt and shame festering in my gut, heavy as lead and thick as the blood that now ran through my veins.

I would not need to eat or sleep, or so I hoped, and could walk for days without stopping. My body could feel pain, more intense then pain should be, but the damage would not be permanent so I could walk forever.

Forever.

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I warned you. Please review and point out flaws in a polite way.


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